


Under the cover of darkness

by Laura_Sinele



Series: Fictober 2019 drabbles [10]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, One Shot, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Short One Shot, Smoking, gaby teller ships it, illya kuryakin is a cinnamon roll, napoleon solo is cruel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_Sinele/pseuds/Laura_Sinele
Summary: Solo and Kuryakin have to wait for a contact at a sketchy tea place in Istambul. Gaby gives them back up from outside. Illya is getting low blows from every front.





	Under the cover of darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fictober19 prompt #12: "What if I don't see it?".
> 
> Short drabble. It could be a prequel or a sequel or generally happen in the same universe as the even shorter drabble "Undercover(s)", in the same series.

“This place is a shameful lair of depravation”

“Well, Peril, next time I take you to a lair of depravation I’ll make sure it is tip-tops”

Illya made a face at his back and was caught by a very serious western man wearing a fez while holding a narguile hose. He ducked his head and followed the yank, cursing inwardly. 

“Are you sure our contact meant to meet us here, Cowboy?”

Solo stopped his studied wandering and half turned to look at him with an arched eyebrow. Illya raised his hands apologetically. They both winced when their earpieces gave off a high pitched feedback. 

_ “Where are we boys?” _

“In a metaphorical crossroads of trust”, said Solo, pointedly looking at Illya. 

“A mere checkpoint, actually”, he replied, unnecessarily adjusting his cuffs. 

_ “Good!”,_ exclaimed Gaby sarcastically from the back of a truck in a nearby alley _ . “I am at the chasm of my patience, seriously considering to jump off if you keep being _ children_, so…” _

Solo scoffed and resumed his course. Illya cleared his throat, adjusted his earpiece and said over the sound of the darbukas and zurnas:

“We are in, Solo is finding us a table. Still not a sign of the contact”.

_ “Much better. Good boy, Illya” _.

He blushed despite himself, and hurried behind Solo, who was talking to a waiter of sorts in his recently acquired turkish. They were led to a round table not two feet up the ground, surrounded by curtains, that added to the dimness of the place. Solo served them a glass of fragrant black tea and lit the narguile, promptly taking one of the hoses. He sat there, smoking quietly, legs crossed, arm resting over the back of the low couch they were sharing, looking at Illya with an expression somewhere between weighing and concerned. 

“What?”

“What is your problem today, Peril? You seem grumpier than usual since we met this morning”

“This is not of your business, Solo”. And then, leaning in and whispering aggressively: “Will you focus on the contact?”

Solo swept his gaze all across his face, up and down several times. Illya followed the path of Solo’s eyes, increasingly nervous for no apparent reason, merely three inches apart from his associate. Then Solo blew a cloud of caramel-scented smoke on his face, sending him coughing a couple of feet away.

“Okay, Kuryakin. Any moment now, our contact is going to come in through that door. When I see them, I’ll make you a sign”.

Illya was struggling already to see anything when they got in this joint, but from this secluded position, wrapped in veils and curtains, he was marvelled to even find his own hands. Scornfully, gesturing at the dark around them, he asked: 

“What if I don’t see it?”

Solo sighed, throwing his head back and then down, in a show of boredom with Illya and his complaints. He looked at his partner and gently put his hand on Illya’s propped up knee, letting it slide down to the middle of his thigh. At Illya’s disconcert and frantic head movements between Solo’s face and his hand, Solo put down the narguile’s hose to hook two fingers under Illya’s chin and make him look up. 

“Don’t you fret, Peril. I’ll make sure you get it”, he said slowly, seductively. 

Through the earpieces, they heard a stifled laugh.


End file.
